


Not To Me, Not If It's You

by QuickSilverFox3



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: (Because I can), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Touch-Averse, Touch-Starved, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: “Hold still,” Billy whispered, watching the play of emotions across Goodnight’s face. He raised himself on his toes to peer at their new— maybe temporary, maybe permanent— companions, before dropping back down. The noise of his boots was muffled beneath the shifting of the horses as Billy leant forward and kissed Goodnight, swallowing his noise of surprise that morphed into a groan.-Goodnight is touch starved, Billy is touch averse. Snapshots of holding hands where no-one can see them.
Relationships: Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks
Comments: 12
Kudos: 80





	Not To Me, Not If It's You

**Author's Note:**

> I am also touch starved and writing this required several breaks like a fainting Victorian.

Goodnight hadn’t believed Faraday, not completely. He couldn’t take the heartbreak again, of putting his hopes so high only to have them fall and break at his feet. But when the curve of the hill gave way, exposing the edge of valley below, he reflexively put his heels to his horse, urging her on just a touch faster. He could feel the weight of Billy’s eyes on his back, hear the low murmur of his voice as he drove his own horse onwards, keeping pace behind Goodnight.

Sam cut an imposing figure in black, against the high sun reflecting off the river to his back, and some distant part of Goodnight’s mind quieted at the sight of the natural defence even as the rest of his being roared with joy at seeing his old friend. Reflexively he took note of the others with Sam, too far away to make them out with any level of detail, but one moved like a predator, slipping behind the tree casting shadows across the swaying grass. His hand was stiff with cold as he signalled that to Billy, the half days travel beginning to drag on him, his head still swimming with the whiskey he drank. He wasn’t as young as he once was. 

He didn’t have to turn to look at Billy. Goodnight could sense his unease on the air, Billy’s horse letting out a nicker, tail whisking through the air.

“I’ll speak to Sam,” Goodnight said, his voice low enough that their travelling companions couldn’t hear them, words whipped away by the wind rushing across the plains, the heavy breathing of the horses.

Billy nodded once, movement small, but his jaw was set, teeth clenched. A thousand tiny tells for Goodnight’s eyes only.

Faraday was three sheets gone with the wind, but still held a bottle clutched triumphantly in one fist, the horse guiding him on instinct, ignoring the random shifts of the rider on his back. Teddy seemed terrified, eyes wide revealing the whites as his gaze rapidly shifted between the vast open plains—perfect for an ambush, the quiet part of Goodnight’s mind whispered—Faraday, and Billy, never seeming to fully land on Goodnight himself. 

  
  


Goodnight felt his ankles protest as he dismounted, moving forward in a motion that was almost a fall to throw his arms around Sam. He felt solid beneath Goodnight’s desperate grasp,the warmth radiating from him temporarily washing away the chill of the grave that clung to Goodnight.

The greeting was as familiar as the scars networking the back of his hands, words barely travelling through his mind before they were spoken, a call and response specific to them. It was as comforting as a warm bed on a snowy winter night, a familiarity that could be felt in your very bones. He didn’t want to let go of Sam, ache in his hands radiating down his arms like a wildfire that threatened to consume him. But Goodnight knew this dance, after all he’d been moving to that unseen beat all his life, and so—when Sam shifted minutely beneath Goodnight’s hands and the count in his head wound down—he let him go. 

A chasm opened up between them, still close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Sam, Goodnight’s fingers twitching as the cold wind brushed past them. Reflex had him turn towards Billy, his mind turned into dust and shadows that settled at Billy’s calm posture, hands held away from his knives deliberately. He bent to scoop up the leather reins Goodnight had dropped—trusting in Billy as he always did, ever since their first meeting.

“That’s Billy. He’s with me,” Goodnight said to Sam, fighting to keep his voice steady. 

Sam’s gaze slid from Goodnight to Billy who inclined his head in welcome, but made no motion to draw closer. Billy’s dark eyes shifted from Sam to Goodnight and, as if ordained, his heart ceased to race, the itching in his limbs subsiding slightly.

A flutter of movement out of the corner of his eye—fingers tracing along the hilt of his gun before his thoughts caught up with his instincts—and he turned to look fully. A woman was standing next to the fire pit, back straight and head raised defiantly. Teddy greeted her warmly, having slipped past Goodnight, the other man surprisingly light on his feet, and her face lit up with a smile, lessening the sorrow etched onto every line on her face

.

“Who’s that?” Goodnight asked Sam, hearing Billy slip away with the horses, and knowing part of Goodnight’s heart went with him. 

“Our employer,” Sam said, as the woman approached with the bearing of a warrior queen. Goodnight looked into her eyes and saw the grief that lay there, heavy and thick. He didn’t want to consider what she saw in his eyes, but whatever it was, she allowed him to take her hand.

Goodnight dipped back into his own consciousness part way through some unknown pleasantries, bordering on flirtation in a way that normally set women at ease. A habit, born from years of separation, looking and never touching. 

It was the sort of lines Goodnight would murmur into Billy’s ear late at night when it seemed like they were the only two people left in the world, their fire banked so everything was cloaked in soft shadows. It was designed to make Billy sigh, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth despite himself as he shook his head. He would set his shoulder against Goodnight, slightly leaning into him as Billy reflexively sought his warmth against the night’s chill, tension running through him like lightning. 

People looked at the pair of them, and thought it obvious that Goodnight was the leader. Little did they know the sheer power Billy held with only the slightest brush of his fingers over Goodnight’s palm.

  
  
  


⁂

Goodnight slipped behind the horses, having made his excuses to Sam and the others, grass flattening beneath his feet as it had beneath Billy’s and the rest of the world fell away. Billy’s hat was held loosely in one hand, back resting against the side of his horse, head tipped up towards the sun. He remained still as Goodnight approached, breathing steady, even as his eyes shifted beneath purple tinted lids. His collar had loosened slightly, a faded mark bared on his collarbone for Goodnight’s gaze to lock onto, mouth dry.

“Sam said she offered him everything they had,” Goodnight said, taking a step forward, gaze shifting from the bruise he had bitten onto Billy himself several days earlier to the pulse leaping in his exposed throat. Wordlessly, Billy lowered his head to stare at him, free hand scrabbling for a cigarette.

“I’m not busy,” Billy replied, retrieving the slim white cigarette and inspecting it with a frown. Goodnight couldn’t remember pulling the matches from his pocket, but it hissed as he struck it, the tiny flame dancing in the wind, almost sputtering out. Billy stepped closer, heat radiating from him and Goodnight stopped breathing. 

His eyes were dark, the tiny flame reflected in them like a dying sun, staring up at Goodnight as Billy lit the cigarette, ducking his head briefly to do so but Goodnight remembered the weight of his gaze. 

“What do you want to do?” Billy asked, taking a step impossibly closer and yet…

Goodnight wanted to reach out and touch him. He yearned with every fibre of his being to pull Billy close and to never let go, to feel his body pressed so close to his own, unburdened for just a moment of this rolling fire beneath his skin. But he didn’t.

He could read the lines of tension in Billy’s shoulders, a deep ache that even the opium wouldn’t touch. Their partnership, their relationship, was forged from blood and tears and sheer bull minded stubbornness, and it was as fragile as spun glass. If Goodnight reached for him, took more than Billy could give, it would knock them back the precious hard won steps they worked together for. Billy placed himself as close to Goodnight as he could bear, even when his entire being screamed at him to run, just to try and alleviate the burn, just so Goodnight wouldn’t suffer too much.

Give and take, a delicate tightrope walk of living. And yet Goodnight wouldn’t have it any other way. He loved Billy too much to want anything different.

“I want to stay,” Goodnight admitted in a whisper, helpless under Billy’s thrall, “What do you want?”

“I want what you want,” Billy answered as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Smoke filled the air, hot and sweet, soothing the knot of worry in Goodnight’s chest. It brought with it memories of just the two of them, tucked into whatever room Goodnight could find, pressed together from ankle to hip with Goodnight pulled close to Billy’s chest as they passed the cigarette back and forth until it was nothing more than a glowing stub. 

“Hold still,” Billy whispered, watching the play of emotions across Goodnight’s face. He raised himself on his toes to peer at their new— maybe temporary, maybe permanent— companions, before dropping back down. The noise of his boots was muffled beneath the shifting of the horses as Billy leant forward and kissed Goodnight, swallowing his noise of surprise that morphed into a groan. 

When he was younger, there would have been no power on earth strong enough to stop Goodnight from pressing himself closer to his partner, from winding his fingers into their hair to allow him to kiss down their throat. But Billy had told him to be still, and so Goodnight obeyed, focusing on the press of Billy’s lips against his, the scratch of his beard against his skin. One hand, calluses so unlike his own but just as familiar, intertwined with his, and Goodnight could have wept for the bounty he had received.

A lifetime passed by the time Billy moved away—and yet no time had passed at all. His hand remained wrapped around Goodnight’s as his eyes searched his face.

“I love you,” Goodnight whispered, squeezing Billy’s fingers, the action carrying more weight for the pair of them than the words.

Billy grinned, and kissed Goodnight again, lightning quick.

“Goodnight!” Sam called, causing them both to jump, hands flying apart as if burnt.

“Everything will work out okay,” Goodnight said, fighting to regain his balance, head swimming.

“I hope it does.”

⁂

Goodnight blinked awake, thoughts slowly sliding through him as if through syrup. He had been dreaming, but the details escaped him as quickly as he tried to recall them, faces of his long dead comrades slipping away. Why was he awake?

The moon hung heavy outside the small window, illuminating Rose Creek with silver, a tableau that everyone was willing to die to protect. His body ached with the labour of the day and all the days before, barely able to do more than kiss Billy before the pair collapsed into bed, only to rise after what felt like a brief moment of sleep. 

Goodnight pressed his head back into the pillow, eyelids heavy, hearing the sweet siren call of sleep…

Billy groaned, the noise like a wounded animal, and it was all the warning Goodnight needed. He threw himself off the edge of the bed, blankets tangled around his legs, muscles screaming as he crashed to the floor. Billy’s back arched, the angle almost impossible in it’s grotesqueness, fingers skittering across the bed like demonic spiders. His eyes were open, but unseeing, all encompassing in their darkness.

“Billy?” Goodnight called, voice hoarse and sleep heavy even as his veins crackled with energy. He shook his head like a dog, fighting off the urge to slip beneath the crashing waves of his own demons. 

Billy drew in a deep breath, air crackling through his constricting throat, muscles twisting beneath his skin like snakes. His yell was aborted by his own hand clamping over his mouth, rough bitten nails digging into his own skin. Billy’s blood was black in the moonlight, trickling down the sides of his mouth.

“Billy!” Goodnight tried again, as loud as he dared—mindful of their close quarters—roughly kicking the blankets away and kneeling at Billy’s side. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, chest heaving with every breath.

“You’re safe here, my love. No-one here but me,” Goodnight hushed, daring to press a calming hand to the centre of Billy’s chest. His heartbeat was a war drum against his palm, impossibly fast and hard, terror devouring all of Billy.

“I’m here, you’re safe my love, my heart, my one and only,” Goodnight crooned, a string of quiet nonsense following as, inch by hard won inch, Billy’s back unbowed, eyes losing their wide terror. 

“Goody?” Billy groaned, words muffled through his palm, hissing as he unhooked his nails from his own flesh.

“Hello ma moitié. Sleep well?”

Billy laughed, twisting his head from side to side with an almost deafening crack, body falling limp as a puppet with its strings cut.

“Anything left in your flask?” Billy asked, every blink slow and methodical as he fought the pull of sleep.

“For you? I have better than anything.”

Billy’s answering swipe was sloppy, easily missing Goodnight as he stood to retrieve his flash from the small pile of their belongings at the foot of the bed. Goodnight stumbled slightly as he walked, cursing as his foot hit his own boots with unwavering accuracy in the shadows where the moonlight did not reach.

His flask was pleasingly full. Goodnight had a vague memory of one woman or another topping it up—smiling and giggling in response to his words and his smile, trying her hardest to win his favour, unaware that he was already taken heart, soul and body—but it tasted good. 

Billy had sat up as Goodnight staggered back, fingers tracing the rivulets of blood running down one cheek. Goodnight passed him the flask, careful to not let their fingertips brush. He’d seen Billy like this only a handful of times, but he remembered what to do clearly, fear imprinting the memory onto his bones. 

“I’m sorry,” Billy murmured, sipping at the whiskey as he stared out at nothing.

“You have nothing to apologise for, cher. You’ve seen me through worse, and I love you. I want to help.”

Billy’s lips twisted into a wry smile, carefully passing the flask back to Goodnight.

“You should have found someone else to love,” Billy sighed, tipping his head back slowly to stare at the shifting moonlight on the ceiling, “Someone who could hug you and touch you whenever you needed it.”

“But I love you, only you,” Goodnight answered, mouth dry. He gulped down a mouthful of the whiskey, barely even noticing the burn. His ears rang with far away panic even as his muscles froze into deathlike stillness.

“I love you too.”

Billy didn’t say the words as often as Goodnight. He cherished the memory of each and every utterance like the most priceless of jewels, carried in his heart as a barrier against the dark days when old ghosts threatened to overwhelm him.

“I’ve never said why I don’t like to be touched at times, have I?” 

Goodnight shook his head, carefully sitting down next to Billy. There was a handspans width between them, but Billy shifted slightly closer, heat radiating off his skin, but never fully touching. 

Billy had tried to tell him so many times before, shaking hard enough to rattle his teeth, but the words died in his chest before he could speak them. It didn’t matter to Goodnight, he’d faced down his own demons too many times to want Billy to face that same torment. The agony that Goodnight felt whenever some well meaning stranger laughed about his victories—unaware the men that were nothing more than faceless forms to them haunted Goodnight every time he closed his eyes—was his to bear. He would carry Billy’s pain on his shoulders if only the other man would let him. 

“I—“

Billy broke off, throat bobbing as he swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. 

“You don’t have to,” Goodnight said softly, fingers aching to pull Billy close and soothe his worries away. 

“I want to,” Billy said firmly, curling his hands into fists to disguise their trembling. Goodnight pretended not to notice.

“It was the boat,” Billy managed to force out through clenched teeth, face pale as if carved out of marble.

Goodnight pressed the flask into Billy’s hands, his own steady as if he was heading off to war once more, instruments of death he forced into softness. 

Billy clung onto the flask like a lifeline, thumb tracing over the engraving as he twisted it round and round, liquid sloshing inside.

“I was brought over to work on the railroad. It was meant to be a chance for a better life, to be able to send money back to my Umma and Dongsaeng, so they wouldn’t have to work as I did.”

Billy forced his shoulders to relax. Goodnight realised he was holding his breath, unwilling to break the spell that had been cast over them both. 

“We were packed into the depths of the boat so tight we could barely breathe,” Billy ground out, beginning to sway as the memory sunk its claws into him once more, “No sunlight, no sky. Just the smell and the constant press of people against you.”

Billy paused, holding up the flask to watch the play of moonlight across it’s burnished surface.

“And then people started to die. We couldn’t do anything, just sit there as our friends and family died and rotted around us.”

Goodnight shuddered. He could remember a seemingly endless, miserable day lying in a muddy hollow, half buried beneath the corpses of his fellow soldiers, as a Gatling gun raged over his head. He’d prayed for it to be over, although whether that was from a stray bullet or the sun—burning him as much as it hid him, a pitted battlefield filled with shadows large enough to hide a man, but not enough to keep him from boiling—to set he couldn’t say.

“I’m sorry,” Goodnight offered, words seemingly a paltry offering in the wake of such pain.

Almost unbidden the memory of a bounty a few years ago unfurled behind his eyes. The man had fled across the Missouri River, forcing them to cross it once to catch and once to bring him back. Billy had seemed as composed as ever to the others watching him with unconcealed interest, but Goodnight could see the cracks in his composure, the rolling of his eyes, so wide, too wide, and the almost war drum beat he maintained, featherlight, on his knives.

Billy smiled. Carefully, mindful of every movement of his tortured muscles, Billy tugged his shirt off over his head, tossing it to one side. Goodnight’s heart was lodged in his throat, unable to move, barely able to breathe with the weight of Billy’s eyes upon him. 

“Hold still,” Billy murmured, barely giving Goodnight enough time to nod before he climbed onto his lap, warm and heavy, love erupting in Goodnight’s chest.

“Is this okay?” Goodnight asked, helpless in the face of his emotions. He’d known Billy for ten years now and loved him for almost as long but he still couldn’t believe that this man had chosen him.

“Yes.”

Billy pressed his ear to Goodnight’s chest, and closed his eyes, listening to the steady thump of his heart, matching his breathing to the other man. It took some effort, careful murmurs of question and answer, to lie back down, twined together. Sleep descended quickly, and Goodnight dreamed of Billy walking by his side in the sunlight, hands joined.

⁂

Goodnight couldn’t help turning the memory round and round in his mind over the next few days, dampening the impending sense of doom washing over the rest of the town. His heart ached for Billy, and the other man could sense it, accepted and reciprocated his increasingly frantic touch, hands clasped beneath the table tight enough to turn Goodnight’s knuckles white.

The others suspected, although to what level Goodnight couldn’t say. Only Sam knew Goodnight as Goodnight, to the others they were a pair, not to be separated.

_ Wherever I go, Billy goes. _

He’d said those words before, to countless men and women, all seeking some part of him he no longer possessed. He’d given everything to Billy, without realising it at first, and then willingly.

“What do you know about my family Billy?”

The straw was sweet, speaking to a good summer, and slightly scratchy as it found the gaps in his shirt. Goodnight didn’t open his eyes after he posed his question to the air, feeling Billy shift slightly in his arms to look up at him. His hairpin was carefully held in Goodnight’s opposite hand, loose enough that Billy could retrieve it in an instant. 

It was the small gestures Goodnight loved most, compromises and solutions discovered over the years they had been together. Goodnight held Billy’s hair pin so Billy could lie on his chest in the moments he felt comfortable doing so. His chest bore the tiny white pin prick scratches that spoke to the slow evolution of their relationship together, able to be held, but not fully trusting Goodnight until he did. 

There were still some things they didn’t say, couldn’t say.

“I know some things,” Billy said slowly. His chin was a sharp jut into the soft flesh of Goodnight’s stomach, voice rumbling through him. “I know about your two brothers and five sisters. I know they write to you whenever we are in a town for too long, and you leave before they can come and find you.”

“Can’t hide anything from you, cher.” 

Goodnight ran his hand through Billy’s hair, the other man letting out a slow sigh in response to his touch.

“I know Faraday likes to make all his jokes about my childhood,” Goodnight began slowly, unsure where he was going to end up. Goodnight wasn’t a stranger to biting comments and barely hidden sneers of derision, but Faraday seemed to have a particular bee in his bonnet with Goodnight’s name on it. The man hadn’t pulled anything else since his stunt with the gun—Goodnight could almost feel the weight of the owl on his shoulder, feel the cold grip of it’s talons on his skin—but they had both seen how he had looked at them.

“But he’s not too far from the truth. My family comes from old money, there was a certain way to act, a certain way to look, and there were no mistakes tolerated.”

“Like us.”

“Like us,” Goodnight agreed. 

His family would never approve of Billy. They could have maybe tolerated him if Goodnight swiftly followed up the introduction with a marriage to one lady or another, keeping Billy as a well known secret. A lifetime of biting comments, of feeling lesser just because of where he came from, seeing Goodnight only under the cover of night? What kind of a life would that be? 

Billy would go with him, would accept the yoke willingly, because it was Goodnight putting it around his neck. But it would kill him, would crush his soul with every breath he took, and Goodnight would die alongside him.

“Everything was laid out for me the moment I was born. The only change was my potential friends as my mother could famously hold a grudge like no-one else. There were tutors, and servants, and all the genteel companionship anyone could ask for.”

Billy remained a comforting weight half on top of him, and Goodnight paused, breathing heavily as he tried to piece together his fractured thoughts. He didn’t say anything, just waited for Goodnight to collect himself, and if that never happened, then they would move on with no grudges held.

“There was no humanity in it. I was always held at a distance from the others. Even from my siblings.”

Goodnight remembered a ball, held when the nights were muggy with heat and it felt daybreak would never come. He was loose limbed with drink, unaware of the horrors of war and the world seemed to shine with beauty he had never seen before. That was the closest he had ever been to people: able to feel the heat off their skin as shirt sleeves were rolled up; the pressure of the ladies' hands in his, skirts brushing against his legs. He’d stumbled out onto the lawn, grass wet beneath his boots, and there—hidden from the illuminated windows of the house and all the prying eyes it contained—Goodnight danced with a man, held close enough to bank the fire beneath his skin for the first time in his life.

“You seem at ease with Sam and the others,” Billy said, voice low, shifting slightly to rest further on Goodnight, “It seems to be only my touch you burn for.”

Goodnight grinned, chuckling slightly despite himself. He cracked open his eyes a fraction, squinting in the high sunlight. Everything was golden, dust dancing in the light that pierced through the holes in the roof. The world around them was still and quiet, the town hiding away from the heat of midday, a well deserved break from the preparations for their deaths. 

Billy stole Goodnight’s breath without having to try, hair loose and spilling across one shoulder like ink. Straw clung to his shoulders, his back—like a harvest god of old, waiting to be worshiped, and Goodnight was more than willing.

“Can I kiss you cher?”

The question was breathless, barely louder than a whisper, but the slow smile that slipped across Billy’s face showed that he heard it. Billy grunted as he pushed himself up and Goodnight missed the weight of him against his chest the second he moved away. He paused for a moment, raised above Goodnight and silhouetted in the golden light.

Laughter broke the moment, too loud, too sharp from below them. Goodnight barely registered Billy pluck the hairpin back, but managed to catch his wrist before he could rise fully. They were nose to nose, Billy’s eyes wide and dark, his heartbeat strong beneath Goodnight’s grip.

“Mary!”

A voice, high and full of laughter, a young woman’s.

“Keep your voice down, Annie,” her companion scolded her, her voice cracking as she fought back laughter. “We’ve only got a few minutes before half the town will come out looking for us.”

“Go and get the water for the men, Mary!” Mary laughed, the rise and fall of her voice indicating she was mocking someone—a brother or a father from the way Annie broke out into matching cackles of laughter. 

  
  
  


“Finally we have some time alone,” Annie sighed, the rustling of fabric accompanying her words before a sound that Billy and Goodnight knew very well reached their ears: soft kisses and even softer sighs.

Goodnight's face flared hot with embarrassment, wishing that the ground would swallow him whole just to escape this situation slightly faster than the death that dogged his every footstep. Billy slowly lowered himself until he was lying on top of Goodnight, muffling his laughter by pressing his face into his neck, beard scratchy against the sensitive skin and his breath warm. He was so close to Goodnight, their limbs tangled together, weight pressing him further into the straw. The flames beneath his skin ebbed with every second that passed, breath catching in Goodnight’s chest as he carefully rested his hands on Billy’s hips. Billy agreement was a wordless kiss, pressed beneath Goodnight’s ear, grinning against his skin.

“Come on Annie, we should get back.”

“We could just run away together, travel the world and—”

“And build a little house all of our own. I know. Come on.”

Their footsteps receded, water from the pails sloshing with every step, every grunt of effort. Billy rolled off of Goodnight, settling slightly apart from him. Goodnight barely had enough time to miss him, heartbeat echoing mournfully inside his chest before Billy’s hand settled in his, familiar and strong.

“It is a nice dream they have,” Billy said, an odd note in his voice.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Goodnight sighed, feeling the years pressing down him with more intensity. He wasn’t young anymore—he had lost any childhood innocence the first time he’d killed a man, barely older than himself—but he had wanted  _ belonging _ more than almost anything.

“I think I could build a house,” Billy said softly, squeezing Goodnight’s hands tightly.

“I’m sure you could.”

Lying on the straw, Billy’s hands held tight in his, Goodnight was content, mind turned towards a future free from blood and death for the first time in a very long time.

⁂

Rose Creek was still and quiet. Blood soaked streets were no-more, fortifications returned to a life of normalcy, or burned on a pyre like the funerals of old. 

There were more graves in the graveyard, rows of neat crosses each one marked with a name and flowers placed there by hands too young to understand why.

“If I have to listen to Faraday complain one more time, I’m gonna finish what that Gatling gun started.”

Billy laughed, the sound restricted by the heavy bandages tied around his chest, and reached back as far as he was able for Goodnight’s hand. 

Goodnight walked unsteadily, each step punctuated by the heavy thunk of a cane, but his smile was the same, his love for Billy was the same. He carefully folded himself into the seat next to Billy, too small for two grown men, pressed together as they were but they made it work. Billy’s legs carefully rested in Goodnight’s lap, cautious of his recent injuries, as one of Goodnight’s arms wrapped around his waist. Their hands were joined, resting in front of them, warm in the sunlight, and no longer hidden in the shadows. 


End file.
